The Ape A Tale Of The Batman
by Crispin Disa
Summary: A meek pharmacist concocts a steroid formula that transforms him into a psychopathic madman.


_**The Ape:**_

**A Tale Of The Batman**

by

**Crispin Disa**

**I have for many years been kept from harm,**

**as all my fellow citizens alike,**

**by one who serves our good by strength of arm**

**and will-benign where wicked-will may strike.**

**I set, therefore, to pen this modest tale**

**and deem, by way of tribute, Batman's deeds**

**a bane to those whose evil minds assail**

**an honest man's pursuit of rightful needs.**

**As every age attests, in direst times**

**a hero comes to stand against the foe**

**who troubles peaceful hearts with heinous crimes**

**and seeks to crush the good their lives bestow.**

**Within the dread that Gotham's shadows cast**

**the evil soul will face its **_**Bat**_ **at last.**

The room was dank. The walls were cracked and old

and cobwebs drooped from patch to patch of mold.

The bars were stained with filth where hands had gripped,

where only shards of broken minds had slipped

and left behind the empty shells of men,

the darkened souls where once a light had been.

The stench of piss, the loneliness of hell,

comprised the foul décor that was his cell.

His massive naked frame was hunkered down

as if a stump that wore a human frown,

and just behind his black and matted hair

his yellowed eyes, their cruel and cunning stare,

had fixed his fetid world with patient guile

that witless taunts from guards could never rile.

He'd come to Arkham seven years before;

they'd found his wife, a heap upon the floor,

her pretty neck a twisted purple thread,

her lover at her side and just as dead.

***

His name was Eric Kwibble, with a _**K**_,

in case you cared to quibble, he would say.

A chemist with a pharmacy on Third,

by look and manner both, a nervous bird,

(perhaps the more from countless verbal jabs

his wife had made with cruel decisive stabs),

he had, from life and birth, the self-esteem

that goads a man to shape a stronger dream.

He used his wiles with chemicals to brew

a muscle building, hammer pounding stew,

a steroid mix that held the hidden curse

that once begun-- the change would not reverse.

He hoped to turn his wife's overt disgust

to fires that burned with raw, unbridled lust.

But women stand immune to deed of plan

that doesn't change the core within the man.

The drug's effect on Eric's frail physique

could not inflate his sexual mystique;

the man he thought she'd find, no longer weak,

she found instead a fool within a freak.

She riddled him with mockery and bile

and stacked a crueler scorn upon the pile

by taking as a lover to her bed

the man who'd stood beside him when they wed.

he tried to keep his jealousy contained

and hold what little self-control remained.

But now it seemed the more his muscles grew

the less his heart perceived of good and true.

His chest became a cavern filled with howls,

his face a savage mask deformed with scowls.

His altered glands began to pump and spew

a blacker poison now, a jinn that flew

from nerve to nerve with damnable effect

and left his soul a ship—forever wrecked!

***

The day he snapped he headed out for work,

but doubled back and found a place to lurk

beneath the stairs that lead to **17 **—

a hunter's blind to catch an act obscene.

He watched his friend come prancing up and knock,

then heard his wife unfastening the lock.

They stood and kissed like lizards plumped with heat,

like lions on the gorge with steaming meat.

A hand upon her thigh was all he saw

when vengeance flashed and jungle wrote the law.

He dashed and pounced with stark and primal force,

and molten rage pursued its violent course.

He knocked them down and broke their weakling bones,

his fists as hard and heavy now as stones.

His massive arms constricted 'round their necks

and vessels popped with red exploding specks.

The next door neighbor felt the quaking floor

and heard the screams and moans beyond her door.

She called the Gotham cops, who took their time,

expecting just a toast and coffee crime,

but once they reached the foul unholy scene

they took a few steps back from **17**.

Emerging from the heap of tangled death

their eyes beheld a sight that stole their breath:

a human beast, a man in whom the man

had lost the finer threads of nature's plan

and slipped to where our line, in savage youth,

competed for the earth by claw and tooth,

a bristling beast with brawn in rippled bands

and mangy hair that hung in blood-soaked strands.

It came for them, intention not disguised,

their mannish scent instinctively despised.

They drew their Smith & Wesson 38's,

but bullets couldn't save them from their fates;

the ripping rounds were more like biting flies

that only served to make his fury rise.

He grabbed their necks and banged their skulls like rocks

that split apart like eggs in flimsy socks.

He let them drop and lumbered for the door,

but one of them, while dying on the floor,

took aim and fired a final lucky shot

that hit the spine and stopped him on the spot.

As strips of numbed awareness wrapped his mind

in gauzy coils that left the world behind,

a single thought arose, a thought forlorn,

that trickled from his conscience, dark with scorn:

_**I took a turn that left me no escape.**_

_**I fear I've lost the man and found the ape.**_

***

The jets of steaming water eased the pain

that sprang from every tear and break and sprain

like bookmarks placed where all the falls and fights

had come to call through countless Gotham nights.

He moved the soap across his arms and chest

where purpled scars kept score of every test

and marked the skin, for brutal foes he'd met,

with signatures the flesh would not forget.

His rugged looks, his masculine physique,

had made his share of women soft and weak

and anxious to oblige his body's needs

with all the charms a woman's passion feeds.

But most could never reconcile the scars

as marks that came from sports or racing cars,

for new ones came that probing couldn't pan,

nor make to fit a pampered wealthy man.

But just last week he'd met an acrobat

from _**Circus Perilous**_ performing at

the observation deck of Gotham Tower,

the corporate home of Gotham City Power.

Her name was Lotus Jade, an Asian jewel,

whose act would daunt a hardened fearless fool.

In cities 'round the globe the troupe would choose

the highest spire the cops would let them use

and there perform, to breathless crowds below,

the mesmerizing dangers of their show.

The rings had been her specialty in school,

but now she reached for rings that broke the rule

of safety in the gym or on the stage,

of only risk that cautious eye can gauge;

she swung from sharpened butcher hooks instead ,

a web of hooks that hung by cabled thread

that dangled down from bamboo poles and jerked

with constant random spasms while she worked.

He'd watched the troupe rehearse and been impressed

with Jade's routine, as well as all the rest,

and asked her, when the press was not around,

to join him for a meal on solid ground.

She sized him up, with such a charming smile,

then said she would, detecting in his style

a hidden heart that ached with worldly cares

behind the face of day to day affairs.

The dinner lasted late, and over wine

they both could feel affection cross the line

and find within a stranger's eyes the light

that burns the flesh and warms a lonely night.

And so she found his scars by passion's touch,

a mystery the better left, for much

is better served by silence softly kept

than answers snagged by questions yet inept.

His wealth, she sensed, was more a useful tool

than velvet crutch that makes a man a fool.

She didn't need to know his hidden aims,

for virtue overrides what darkness claims

when wealth and power are bent to wisdom's use;

the principle, she knew, applied to Bruce.

The troupe would be in town for forty shows.

On August 10th they'd take their bows and close,

then pack their gear and fly to where the sun

could feel the tip of _**Taipae 101.**_

Until that time they'd take what fate allowed,

some quiet joys away from Gotham's crowd

for her, for him a needed restful time

away from Gotham's unrelenting crime.

She'd rented an apartment with a friend,

a double-jointed gymnast who could bend

and fit within a crystal-leaded sphere

her partner then would hoist upon a spear.

And fixing that atop the building's spire—

to gasps of fear, the sphere was set afire.

But now it seemed she'd likely spend her nights

at Bruce's lavish home where city lights

were far away and strung with less appeal

than feelings lit by candlelight and meal.

She took the soap and slipped around his waist

to wash his back, where other scars were traced.

His body was a mystery of strength,

a history she longed to read at length.

She'd seen her share of well-developed men,

the ones at _**Circus Perilous**_ and then

a few who worked with weights to build their size,

which mostly just impressed the other guys.

But here she saw the form that war imparts,

the power and speed of deadly martial arts,

a jungle cat who moved with force and guile,

a lethal mix of swiftness, brawn, and wile.

He reached around to draw her body near

and search her eyes for judgment, doubt, or fear,

but all he saw was pleasure unashamed—

and inner strength by woman's beauty framed.

They stood and let the water's warming spray

excuse the world and wash their cares away.

He raised his head and scanned the skylight view.

Beyond the stars the moonlit night looked blue,

a somber blue that cloaks a sentry's heart

and keeps him held, from those he guards, apart.

He hoped that fate, the mischief stars align,

would sleep the night and summon not _**The Sign!**_

***

The wounds that would have killed a normal man

were fully healed the day his trial began;

the deeper wound, the wound that broke his mind

and left his battered conscience deaf and blind,

compelled a verdict, passed with cold disdain:

the _**beast**_ accused is guilty—but insane!

_**I could have told you that,**_ a stranger said,

his self a phantom voice within his head.

_**I'll trod the soul of humankind with scorn**_

_**and resurrect the branch where ape was born.**_

_**I'll crush their towers with primal foot unshod**_

_**and claim again the throne of Primate God!**_

His swirling thoughts returned to what he knew:

the formula, his strength-enhancing brew.

There had to be a flaw that made his mind

chaotic now, so difficult to find.

The replicating molecule was strong…

perhaps the blood itself was all that's wrong.

A secondary agent might reverse

or slow, at least, the mixture's only curse:

The constant raging storms of passion's fire

that kept control a slave to brute desire.

He had to read his notes again and find

an answer that would free his power of mind,

but those were stashed at home beneath the floor,

a hide he'd made behind the bedroom door.

But ever since they'd found him at the scene,

those back-up cops who rushed to **17**,

they'd kept him clad in triple sets of chains

and struggle-straps designed to heighten pain

in hard to handle inmates such as he—

the ones who harbored hope of breaking free.

The verdict hardly registered at all,

his human side subdued behind a wall

of thick psychotic grandeur laced with bile

that churned and turned his moods corrupt and vile.

They dragged him off to Arkham's bleak domain

where nothing bent and hopeless seemed insane;

they locked him up and quickly time began

to slip away like blackened oil that ran

between the crannied walls of night and day

and twisted gates that held his rage at bay.

He knew that even wary men will tire

when danger seems to lose its tooth and fire,

and apathy will lapse to foolish trust

when threat retreats behind a placid crust.

The guards would come in pairs with Dr. Stiles,

who had to write reports to stuff his files

with inconclusive theories full of words

that flew around the page like Latin birds.

But now he had a second man in tow,

a _**pharma-suit**_ who thought he'd run the show.

He poked the shards of Eric's shattered mind

to snag the prize that Stiles could never find:

a molecule to sell the _**DoD **_

to make a soldier _**all that he can be!**_

But Eric new the look of corporate thugs;

he'd seen the type through years of buying drugs:

the _**scientific guns for hire**_ whose pills

had side-effects that trumped a patient's ills.

He'd waited like beaten dog and now

he'd seize the chance and show these mongrels how

a titan breaks the walls that block his way

and makes the will of puny men to pay.

The _**suit**_ produced a vial of bluish-green

and then a syringe that neither guard had seen.

They said a shot for prisoners demands

they step inside the cell and cuff his hands.

They turned the key and pushed the metal door,

but then forgot what Arkham's rules are for--

they both came in, instead of only one,

with one to lock the door and aim the gun.

The ape was like a demon sprung from hell,

his victims trapped like lambs within his cell.

He tore their limbs and sprayed the walls with blood,

then stomped their jellied brains to crimson mud.

The cries were brief and guards who worked the floor

had heard such cries a thousand times before;

the broken souls concealed in Arkham's rooms

gave vent to sounds more fit for haunted tombs.

But one by one, as Eric worked the keys,

the guards themselves gave vent to screams like these.

The brooding halls became a ghastly trail

of valor torn from bodies made too frail.

The tinny scent of blood infused his brain

with savagery and disregard for pain.

He hurled his weight against the final door

and, glancing up, he saw the moon and swore:

_**Oh, world of men, I grant you no escape—**_

_**the hour has come to bow before The Ape!**_

***

She settled back against the leather seat

and wondered why he'd rushed away to meet

a man he wouldn't name, or why so late;

she told herself: _**It's not another date!**_

She didn't like her thoughts, but there it was;

she couldn't help but wonder now because

the man had gotten in and made her care:

the why of it, the who and what and where!

Perhaps his butler Alfred knew what's up.

But that, of course, was not a _**proper cup**_,

for men like Alfred reap a servant's pride

on keeping mum the secrets others hide.

And more than that, in Alfred's words she heard

a father-like protectiveness that stirred,

from deep within a long-enduring bond,

a kindly warmth beyond the merely fond.

She told her thoughts to hush and let it go.

She would have had to leave to do the show

in any case-- a special midnight show

with all of Gotham watching far below.

The roof of Gotham Tower would only hold

a couple hundred seats when fully sold.

The _**Circus**_ made its money selling rights

to televised reviews of special nights:

a spectacle of death-defying feats

for breathless crowds who jammed the city's streets.

Beneath the moon and flooded 'round with lights,

the spire above the deck would dance with sights

of acrobatic artists risking all

to tempt their wires and bars without a fall.

The stately Rolls was classic quiet black

and moved as if a cloud on padded track.

It softly brushed the curb and Alfred turned:

_**I wonder miss, if by tonight you've learned**_

_**that Mr. Wayne is not an open book.**_

_**But by my word, he's worth a deeper look.**_

She smiled and said, _**I know I shouldn't let**_

_**the side he hides outweigh the side I get.**_

_**I guess a girl grows cautious over time,**_

_**a side-effect of seeing rampant crime**_

_**and finding guys who come across so right,**_

_**but prove themselves a dog and not a knight.**_

With just a nod, to say he understood,

the old man said, _**I'd tell you if I could**_

_**that better times and better men are nigh,**_

_**but this, you know too well, would be a lie.**_

_**I'll only say that Bruce has always been**_

_**a hidden jewel among the stones of men.**_

_**Remove the mask that softly guards the light—**_

_**I'm sure you'll find your true and worthy knight.**_

She touched his arm and said, _**Goodnight, and sir,**_

_**I'd never let a mystery deter**_

_**the course of love's obscure and puzzling game,**_

_**for I myself am chambered much the same.**_

She got the door herself and waved goodbye,

then caught the sweep of lights across the sky.

The top of Gotham Tower was all aglow

with streaks of light to advertise the show.

From other buildings, beams traversed the dark,

but in their midst a grimmer beam was stark

and crossing slow, as if a prowling cat:

it bore a sign—a silhouetted bat!

***

It took a while to comprehend the scene

and calls went back and forth, while in between,

the officers who came to Arkham's aid

were sickened in their souls by death's parade.

A stink of slimy pennies filled the air

from pools of blood evaporating there,

and every man expressed in nervous tones

the shock that washed their faces pale as bones.

When Gordon heard, he choked a cursing cry

and gave the word to flash across the sky

the bat-winged beam that signaled something dire

was crackling through the GPD like fire.

The beacon light contained a hidden pack

of circuitry that sent a signal back

to Wayne Estate's elaborate arrays

of data banks and plasma screen displays;

a tickling note that only Bruce could hear

would flutter like a gnat within his ear.

A guest, no matter whom, would quickly find

the topic of the moment left behind,

and Bruce would leave with practiced expertise,

apologies accepted, as they please.

And so he had to leave his Asian flower,

her naked skin, the warm caressing shower,

to face instead another looming storm

and miss the thrill of watching her perform.

He kissed her long and said, _**If time allows,**_

_**I'll make the show before your final bows.**_

_**The work I do is hard to understand—**_

_**I often serve its whim and time's demand.**_

_**I hope you'll trust the things I do are good.**_

He couldn't tell her more, but wished he could.

He made his way below the manor's grounds

where vaulted chambers echoed modern sounds

of venting fans and coils to dry the air,

of pumps and motors running through the lair.

He sat before a console lined with screens

that took their feed from shifting Gotham scenes

as countless hidden cameras eyed the streets,

a tireless force patrolling endless beats.

He jabbed a key for audio alone,

then clicked a link direct to Gordon's phone.

He merely said, _**I'm here,**_ in even tones

and knew at once by Gordon's graveled groans

that something big, a circumstantial bomb,

had blown away the older man's aplomb.

He sat and let the lurching facts unwind

as Eric Kwibble's profile came to mind:

a self injected drug had made him strong

and tipped his moral compass right to wrong.

On top of that, the side effect of rage,

the sort that comes when reason can't engage

the vicious storms of wounded pride enflamed

by jealous love that's cruelly cut and maimed,

had morphed his now tormented inner world

to deadly states psychotically unfurled.

But that explained the _**why**_ of what he'd done.

The question was: what next—and where he'd run!

He had to see the recent Arkham files,

the growing stack a patient there compiles.

And more than that, the scene itself may hold

a nuance of behavior there that told

a hidden tale obscured by blood and gore,

a subtle clue the cops would not explore.

The cops, he knew, would block the major roads

and search the trucks with partial open loads,

but cops, of course, were not as well rehearsed

at playing games with those whose minds were cursed.

_**I'm leaving now, **_he said, _**so tell your men**_

_**I'll need to see the current files and then**_

_**I'd like to have a look at Kwibble's cell—**_

_**the scribbled words on walls can often tell**_

_**a secret ordered pages don't contain,**_

_**a glimpse of flies and worms that eat the brain.**_

He tapped a key and ended Gordon's dime.

He didn't want to waste such crucial time.

***__

The new-mown grass, the summer flowers, the breeze

that twisted through the leaves of shrubs and trees,

the fragrant kiss of Arkham's moonlit grounds

inspired his thoughts beyond their human bounds.

The atrophy of flesh and mind and soul

that seven years of Arkham duly stole

was quickly now subsiding breath by breath,

as if his blood had charged on violent death

and found within his crimes a fertile womb

to nourish life where others found their tomb.

The stink of institution filled his nose,

unnoticed up till now, his reeking clothes

were foul with mold that thrives on dank despair

and pungent filth from under-funded care.

He tore away his shirt and rubbed his chest

with clumps of grass whose sweet perfume caressed

a stirring nest of long suppressed desire

uncoiling now in flashing tongues of fire.

The earth released a dark and mournful moan—

it must have been the earth's and not his own,

for deep within the earth his wife's remains

would haunt a heart with unforgiving strains…

a weakling heart without the power to sway

this stronger heart that held regret at bay.

His wife was like a dream that fades at dawn,

her grisly death a vapor all but gone,

a face that drifts where shades of flowers are strewn

in muted hues across a pallid moon.

He heard her voice, from time to time it came,

a whispered breath absolving him of blame,

preferring now this sociopath unclothed,

this beast above the sniveling man she loathed;

or so he thought, as Gotham etched the sky

and fed desires that conscience cannot buy.

He knew he had to reach his hidden files,

for thinking seemed to clutter thoughts in piles.

These little men that broke like little toys

at least could claim what brutal force destroys:

a bright and ordered mind in which to weigh

the streams of thought that flow in disarray.

He knew he had to redesign the chain

that spread this constant fog across the brain!

Alarms began to clang in Arkham's halls

as shouts and screams careened across its walls.

He hadn't run in many years, but speed

was coursing through his legs, his body freed

of steel and stone and Arkham's endless hours

that blunted life and stifled raging powers.

He moved among the shadows, tree to tree,

a shade himself, as swift as bulk can be,

and every stride ignited latent cells,

the morphing cells that seemed to grow in swells.

With every surge of blood his strength increased,

an alchemy of man embracing beast.

The distant glow of Gotham's brooding heights,

that summer haze of unforetold delights,

was beckoning as if a siren call—

the face of Eve enticing Adam's fall.

***

Detective Strain was never fond of bats,

and men who wore a mask, by all the stats,

were sure as shit mere candidates for crime

and half a hop away from doing time.

But standing there in front of him like Mars,

his muscles more a robe of braided bars,

he found his own response the same as most:

he'd sooner face a malcontented ghost!

He braved a scowl to scorn The Bat's request

to see the file on Arkham's missing guest.

But that was all his spunk could bring to bear

as courage sank beneath that glacial stare.

_**It's down the hall… I'll show the way,**_ he said.

_**The local guides are still in shock—or dead!**_

The Batman said, _**No need. I know the room.**_

He turned and left, his cape a swirl of doom.

A lifeless smell of paper getting old,

embalmed with just that hint of tangy mold,

reminded Bruce of all the wasted lives

that built a lonely cell with guns and knives

and claimed their place in hell's excreted piles—

recorded here in Arkham's musty files.

He scanned the shelves of folders row by row,

those scrawling notes undigitized and slow,

and found between more famous case reports

the only _**ape**_ to stand before the courts.

He turned the pages, searching phrase by phrase,

to find that clue that circumstance betrays.

But nothing seemed to snag his thoughts and show

the key to where this menace now would go.

The chemicals had manacled his brain,

had warped his heart and driven both insane,

and Dr. Stiles had not unlocked the door

that blocked the path to Eric's secret core.

The men we deem insane may act bizarre,

but this he knew, that most are not so far

afield from normal men whose goals and games

are primal drives a fragile judgment tames.

He flipped the folder closed and left the room;

a sense of something missed began to loom.

He soon began to see the grim décor

of covered corpses blotched with crimson gore.

The cops were tight as fiddle strings and shook

with every cat-like step the Batman took.

The crime scene suits resented him but knew

that Arkham's boys were quite a different crew,

that he alone could tap each twisted head

and fill each wretched heart with retching dread.

They stood aside and let him have his look;

the dead could wait, however long it took.

The walls of Eric's cell were dark with grime,

but underneath his bunk he'd taken time

to scrawl another formula to fight

the chain reacting bonds that held him tight.

Within the ape, within the raging brute,

the mind of Eric Kwibble stayed astute,

astute enough to contemplate and plan

the elements required to make a man

who glorifies the buried beast and hails

the brutal thoughts and wants of alpha males.

But Bruce had studied chemistry and saw

that certain parts were incomplete and raw,

as if he'd tried but failed to recollect

a knowledge that the brew itself had wrecked.

The cops had looked but never found a trace

of scientific notes to prove the case

that Eric's savage state expressed intent,

had sprung from prior design, however bent.

He surely must have hidden them away.

Perhaps he even knew there'd come a day

when every bit of human good was gone—

the drug a king, his dignity its pawn.

He must have found a spot at home or work

to hide the notes before he went berserk.

The Batman stood, envisioning the page

that listed Eric's height and weight and age,

his work address, and then the murder scene:

his old apartment number—**17**!

The meaning struck as if a burst of light

had yanked the curtained darkness back from night--

the very place where four had met the beast

was now the place that Lotus Jade had leased!

***

The paths of nerves that once were gleaming rails

within his brain had turned to tangled trails

that twisted truth and changed a scene perceived

to fit the lie his mangled mind conceived.

He pressed against the door and popped the lock;

he couldn't find the courtesy to knock.

He heard a voice, a lovely voice that said,

_**I'm changing clothes. I thought you'd gone ahead.**_

_**I wouldn't mind a cup of oolong tea—**_

_**I know it's getting late, but you and me**_

_**have spent so little time between the shows…**_

_**I've been a selfish roomy, I suppose. **_

She zipped her costume tight and wondered why

her roommate didn't greet her or reply.

She turned and saw the fast approaching shape

of something partly human, partly ape.

The eyes were cold, like rivet holes in steel,

a gaze of power that offered no appeal.

She tried to run, but found with dark surprise

he moved with speed despite his massive size.

He grabbed her arm and flung as if a doll—

she slammed and slumped against the plaster wall.

She wasn't dead: he faintly heard her breath;

her pretty face did not resemble death.

He'd seen that look enough, the wilted skin

that seems to say a soul is not within.

But here he saw the inner light that glows,

that subtle blush of life in soft repose.

And seeing her, he felt his own the more

a shadow tossed on death's abysmal shore.

He had to see the formula again,

to fully grok the molecule and then

remodel just the parts that burn the brain

and dim the inner eye with veils of pain.

He moved the door to peel the carpet back

and slipped his nail between a floorboard crack.

The narrow space concealed a necklace file,

the kind that holds a peta byte in style.

He held it up and sighed to know that soon

he'd find a way to shrug the drug's cocoon

and, keeping every ounce of primal power,

he'd pound his chest and toll the primate's hour.

He looked around, but many things had changed.

The furniture was new, or rearranged;

he wasn't sure… his mind would bark commands

that shaped the world as if a sculptor's hands.

The woman on the floor: was this his wife?

Had love at last redeemed her soul with life,

unchained her death and cracked her coffin wide

to resurrect his sweetly tempered bride?

He hung the file around her neck and said,

_**A wife come back or lover new instead—**_

_**it matters not for blood ferments as wine.**_

_**Her inner semblance soon will mirror mine!**_

He bit his arm to draw the warming flood,

then bit her neck, injecting tainted blood.

She stirred and moaned, but consciousness refused

to witness such a rite of love-abused.

But Eric felt his heart begin to soar,

to fill with songs that called to love for more.

He cradled her as if a lover swooned

by passion's power, by both their hearts attuned.

He gently pressed his cheek against her head

and, whispering as if a lover, said,

_**A thousand nights and more within my cell**_

_**the empty folds of loneliness brought hell**_

_**that crushed my breath with haunted bands of blame**_

_**and stalked my worthy pride with feeble shame.**_

_**They say I killed the one I loved, but no,**_

_**upon your face I feel the blush and flow**_

_**of nature's nectar pulsing strong with life,**_

_**and that, my darling dove, I'll make my wife**_

_**for nature knows her man, and so his mate**_

_**is amply mixed with beauty, force, and fate—**_

_**and urged to greater compliment by change,**_

_**to greater love when stretched to greater range. **_

_**When first we loved as lesser beings than now,**_

_**I wondered why the laws of life allow**_

_**the colder heart to rise above the warm**_

_**and break its kind intent by rage and storm.**_

_**I felt the sting of every lash you spoke**_

_**and grew more hard with every slashing stroke.**_

_**I learned from you that strength is forged in pain,**_

_**that kindness bends, that virtue bows in vain.**_

_**We meet as equal beasts and claim as ours**_

_**the full domain that yields to mingled powers.**_

_**I here declare that none will come between**_

_**my fervent heart and you—my faithful queen.**_

He roughly laid her down across the bed

and let his ardor take control and spread.

As Lotus stirred and rose from where she dreamed,

she felt a pain, she blinked her eyes, then screamed.__

***

The citizens of Gotham drive at speeds

the batmobile so easily exceeds

that many merely curse the rush of air

that pounces on their senses unaware.

It threaded through the crime infested streets

as if the tires were shod with metal cleats.

Wherever Gotham Tower appeared there grew

a crowd that craned to catch a sidewalk view,

and many peered from windows, roofs, and cars

to watch the show displayed against the stars.

As members of the _**Circus**_ troupe appeared,

and those above with pricey seating cheered,

the batmobile arrived, its rumbling ceased;

it idled deep, like thunder unreleased.

The racing knight attacked the narrow stairs

with charging force befit a raging bear,

and yet his steps made little sound to tell

an unsuspecting foe of coming hell.

The door to _**17**_ was still ajar,

a risky breach, by Gotham's code bizarre.

He knew the reason why and crossed the room,

his cape a hissing shroud of swirling doom.

The _**ape**_ was poised to brutally invade

the undefended warmth of Lotus Jade,

but tethered lines of wire conveyed a jolt

that shot like ragged fire with every volt

and made him arch with pain upon the bed

and roar with savage agony instead.

The _**Bat**_ released the small device and struck

the raging _**ape's**_ confusion like a truck.

They flew across the room and hit the wall.

Exploding plaster shards began to fall.

The girl rose in terror and dismay

and steeled herself to deftly slip away.

She'd heard about a man they called the _**Bat**_,

a vigilante dressed in black, but that

was just a legend made of hype and hope,

a myth designed to help the city cope

with ever rising tides of urban crime—

a creature of the swamp who hated slime!

But this was real and danger, as she knew,

could send a bolt of lightning flashing through.

They grappled for position, locked like bulls,

as each delivered blows and wrenching pulls.

She waited as they came apart, then clashed,

and, seizing all her nerve, she quickly dashed.

She rushed to make the stairs, but heard a roar:

the _**ape**_ had seen her moving through the door.

She knew the street was likely where he'd head;

she took the stairs to reach the roof instead.

The _**Bat**_, she prayed, would slow the _**ape's**_ pursuit.

He'd saved her once, whatever his repute,

and now she knew her life was in his hands.

She'd trust in that, _**whatever fate demands!**_

***

The art of fighting starts with simple moves

repeated till they slide like wheels in grooves.

The preset forms are then allowed to mix

with varied foes, with random blows and kicks.

The skill that comes when form at last is freed

is martial will expressed at blinding speed.

But skill must still contend with size and strength,

and often brutish force prevails at length;

a mass of muscled flesh, as tree to axe,

can long endure the edge of sharp attacks.

The drug-evolved adrenal glands distilled

a potent flow of energy that filled

the _**ape's**_ prodigious frame with raging force

the _**Bat**_ could barely slow upon its course.

A filament of grappling wire restrained

about as well as Samson's vengeance chained.

He roared and flung the _**Bat**_ against the wall,

then quickly gained the building's outer hall.

He started down the stairs but caught a scent

that showed the way his new beloved went.

He headed for the roof with ambling bounds

that shook the floors below with thund'rous sounds.

The _**Bat**_ was stunned, but quickly cleared his head.

Without the suit's protection he'd be dead;

it cushioned shocks and blunted violent hits

that had the power to break a bone to bits.

He reached the stairs and took them three by three.

He heard the _**ape**_ ahead but couldn't see

the cause of all the crashing sounds, but then

a void appeared where solid steps had been,

and gusts of splintered wood and sharp debris

came raining down with dust where steps should be.

Pursuit, he knew, could change in blinks of time

and seconds lost could o h s o s l o w l y c h i m e!

He stood aside to let the rubble fall,

then fired a line to spike the upper wall.

A handy tool that pulled his weight with ease

traversed the tangled beams by narrow squeeze.

He reached the roof in time to see her leap

a city chasm twenty stories deep,

and fleet as any deer upon its hoof,

she ran across the next adjoining roof.

Continuing, she quickly crossed the next,

an agile feat that left the _**ape**_ perplexed.

But then she reached the block where Grant and Bauer

support the massive base of Gotham Tower—

where sides of glass and ribboned steel arise,

their gothic lines at home in murky skies.

She scanned the height, the _**Circus**_ lights atop,

but saw no way to bridge the gaping drop.

The row of roofs provided no escape,

and turning now she saw the charging ape

traverse the first and then the second span:

a steroid-driven mockery of man!

She felt his bite, a poisoned bite she feared;

she cursed her fate, but then the _**Bat**_ appeared.

She grasped at hope, its calming beam of light,

as if this man by darkness conquered night.

He seemed to point his arm, as if to aim…

a small harpoon device propelled by flame

escaped his sleeve and shot above their heads

unreeling wire as light as silken thread.

It pierced a metal rib and firmly caught;

the other end he tied, then drew it taut.

He clamped the wire with tension wheels that turned

as fast as summer pinwheel-fireworks burn.

He swiftly overtook the loping _**ape**_

who snarled and tried to grab the swirling cape,

but all he caught was anger turning green

with jealousy for there—his eyes had seen

a look upon the Asian's lovely face

that clearly spoke an open heart's embrace

of every move the _**Batman **_now employed

to save her soul-- and see his own destroyed.

He roared with rage and cursed the _**Bat**_ as Jade

was swept away, but tricks would not evade

his hard resolve to make the girl his queen

and crush the bones of those who'd come between.

He mustn't let them reach the street below

where cops could rally men enough to throw

him back in Arkham's unforgiving hell,

to face another term within that cell;

he'd rather die a thousand deaths while free

than live a single life by lock and key!

***

The climber's art relies on nerves of steel,

on fingertips that find a ledge by feel,

on fluid strength that disregards a pain

despite the bite of cold or wind or rain;

apply to that the finest gear that's made

and men can go where raptors' nests are made.

And so the _**Bat**_, at war in Gotham's nights,

had always felt at home amid its heights.

They reached the side of Gotham Power, its mass

a rising wall of _**Cor-ten**_ steel and glass;

the metal ribs encased the glass and rose

as laddered frames combined in terraced rows.

The _**Bat**_ could see they didn't have the time

to make the street, instead they'd have to climb,

and hopefully the fight could be resolved

with Lotus out of reach and uninvolved.

The raging _**ape**_ had doubled back and found

a fire escape that let him reach the ground.

It wasn't long before they heard him howl

and, looking down-- they saw his livid scowl

as jealous fire and anger's vicious might

compelled the beast to scale the building's height.

The _**Bat **_had skills and tools to circumvent

the obstacles of such a long ascent.

But Lotus Jade, though unafraid to climb,

was not as trained and cost them precious time.

The crowd became aware, and soon the news

had helicopters buzzing by for views.

The _**Circus**_ troupe was gathered, looking down,

their harness wire and frames a tangled crown,

and all the lights that swept in strident beams

transformed the grim ordeal to show-biz dreams!

As Lotus climbed, her back and arms and legs

began to ache with deep exhaustion's dregs;

the wall did not provide a six inch ledge

or like a cliff, from layer to layer, a ledge

where all the weight can stand and strength return

as straining muscles rest and cease to burn.

The _**Bat**_ was watching, gauging floor by floor,

the paneled frames they'd have to climb before

he'd be within a range to safely fire

another bolt, his final bolt and wire.

The _**ape**_ was tapping energy that surged

as ancient codes of _**primate**_ reemerged;

he moved along the building's rising lines

with much the ease a chimp traverses vines,

and soon the _**Bat**_ could see that monstrous face

as if a demon sprung from hellish space.

His cape, of course, could form a glider's wing,

a chance he'd take if circumstance should bring

the homicidal beast upon their heels

with all the wrath a _**wounded**_ _**lover**_ feels.

The time had come to make that single try,

to take his aim and let the _**arrow**_ fly.

He cleared his mind of _**what**_ and _**why**_ and _**how**_—

of any thoughts distracting _**here and now**_,

and breathing in as _**ki**_ extended out,

his _**subtle field**_ devoid of want or doubt,

he let the dart release its flashing force---

a race of fire that traced its upwards course.

It reached its peak, then seemed to float, a speck,

its angle just suffice to clear the deck,

and slipping back against the rail it dodged,

it flexed its sharpened spines and firmly lodged.

The _**ape**_ could see the _**Bat's **_ingenious toy

and pressed his climb to hopefully destroy

this interloping creature dressed in black

who took and yet survived the _**ape**_'_**s**_ attack…

and now was on the verge of yet again

denying him the prize that might have been.

He watched in disbelief and bitter gall

as Lotus and the _**Batman**_ rode the wall;

he roared and cursed this self-appointed guard,

this righteous _**mask**_ who made each task so hard!

***

The _**Circus**_ troupe had heard the tales, but most

did not believe that Gotham had a _**ghost**_

who donned the garb of creatures dark and grim

to pound a nail through souls encased in sin

and drive a wedge of fear where wickered hate

had strangled and obscured the heart's estate.

But here he was, before them now with Jade—

the truth was more than legend's tribute paid,

for each had seen the skill and daring wile

that brought them up the wall a quarter mile.

A couple hundred guests with kids in tow

were crowded 'round the deck to watch the show.

They didn't seem to understand the fact

that what was going on was not the act.

In tones that none could misconstrue, he said,

_**The man who comes has left a string of dead.**_

_**Evacuate the roof and do it now—**_

_**as quickly as the exit ways allow.**_

He turned and told the _**Circus**_ crew to wait

till everyone had cleared the upper gate,

then take the girl and make a fast retreat

and not look back till safely on the street.

But Lotus Jade protested this and said,

_**I'd rather stay and help you fight instead.**_

_**I know this thing is dark and full of hate,**_

_**but dodging danger's not my strongest trait.**_

_**It's me it wants, for **_what_** I dread to guess;**_

_**I have no wish to feel its vile caress…**_

_**but you, I sense, alone possess the strength**_

_**to meet its wrath and crush its will at length! **_

_**So let me stay, at least to act as bait:**_

_**a tempting lure compels a fool to fate.**_

He looked at her, the body he admired—

she'd made that climb and wasn't even tired!

He touched her neck, a purple crescent bite;

a chilling thought…he hoped he wasn't right.

The necklace wasn't hers. She'd never own

a bauble unadorned with precious stone,

and more than that, a necklace when she worked,

with one mistake, could be a noose that choked.

He recognized a data stick and guessed

why Eric Kwibble's twisted mind was stressed.

Without the key, his grandest dreams were doomed,

his brightest spark by darkest blood entombed.

He knew the flaw of men whose dreams come near

the borderlands of bravery and fear:

their private quest, so inward, proud, and tall,

conspires with fate to fix their public fall.

In Kwibble's mind, the world was his to take;

a human life—a fragile toy to break!

As innocence, devoured by hate and rage

becomes more vile, as wine more fine, with age,

the years in Arkham changed his wounds to scars

and fed the lie that man controls his stars.

He broke his chains and signed another name

in sticky red on Gotham's wall of shame.

Behind the mask, as Bruce assessed the crowd,

their count, he guessed, was more than _**regs**_ allowed.

He'd never get them safely down below;

their lack of fear was keeping movement slow.

Too well he knew the depths of self-deceit,

how quickly fear's abstraction brings defeat--

unless the tip of danger pricks our skin,

we disregard the jeopardy we're in.

He saw the wicked grid of beams and wires

where Lotus wove adrenalin desires

and told the girl to take her refuge there,

her safety better found in thinnest air.

He noticed then the 'coptors' thumps had swung,

their pitch as well… a higher throbbing rung—

they must have moved along the western wall.

But why the west? It made no sense at all…

unless…

He turned and saw a man appear to rise,

then fall to earth with slowly fading cries.

***

_**I'll pave the streets with men who wish to die—**_

_**unless a bat can show them how to fly!**_

The _**ape**_ had found his voice and though it rasped,

his point was clear with every throat he grasped.

He flung another, plummeting towards death,

the garbled screams… a silent final breath.

_**I have an itch to kill them one and all.**_

_**But that aside, I'd sooner see you crawl**_

_**and beg of me their lives for yours in trade—**_

_**a filthy corpse for one and all displayed!**_

The _**Bat**_ had learned that words, ornate or plain,

could never make a man the less insane.

He charged the _**ape**_ and, drawing near, he rose

and drove a kick that pulverized the nose.

A burst of crimson droplets filled the air

and sprayed the monster's mane of matted hair.

He howled his pain and blindly clutched and tore

imaginary slabs of flesh and gore.

He cursed and spat and rubbed his eyes to see;

with every move the _**Bat**_ became a bee

that stung him hard and stoked his force to fire

in hopes that soon his surging strength would tire.

The _**ape**_ was built for pulling-power and grip,

a wrestler's brawn designed to crush and rip.

The _**Bat **_was more a boxer, sharp and quick,

but add to lethal hands a lethal kick,

and years of martial arts with Asia's best,

and Gotham's brutal streets to hone the rest—

it shaped a hero fit for troubled times,

a righteous hand to answer ruthless crimes.

He worked the _**ape**_, accepting every force,

conducting it, then redirecting course.

He couldn't let the _**ape**_ secure a hold

or death would come with sudden dark and cold.

He thanked his luck that Kwibble hadn't trained;

an once of skill with so much muscle gained

could change the game and maybe tip the scales

to make a move that works a move that fails.

The rain of blows and weight concussive throws,

that madd'ning cape that fluttered 'round like crows,

was just enough to keep the _**ape**_ at bay

and give the others time to slip away.

He noticed Lotus high among her wires,

the hooks attached to jutting metal spires.

He knew she had the best intentions, yet

this _**ape**_, if given half a chance could get

a hold of beams that braced supporting frames

and stretch again his list of victims names.

The time it takes a thought to amble by

exceeds by far the time to catch a fly;

the _**ape**_ was on the _**Bat**_ within a flash…

a whoosh of air, he felt a thudding crash:

his shoulder hit the roof, a roughened steel

that tore his top and made the armor peel

enough to show a scar from long ago,

a calling card from yet another foe.

He rolled and slipped a blow from Kwibble's fist,

then struck it hard and cleanly broke the wrist.

The pain was like a shard of searing glass,

a scream along the nerves that wouldn't pass.

He roared and spun and smashed against the frame

that held a torch that burned the _**Circus**_ flame.

It spilled an oil that splashed the _**Bat**_ and lit

a separate flame on every spot it hit.

He whirled his cape and rolled across the ground,

but through the swirling fabric heard the sound

of Lotus Jade, a sharp defiant yell:

_**I'll send your filthy soul to rot in hell!**_

***

She moved with such a strength between the hooks,

undaunted by the _**ape's**_ demonic looks,

he knew at once that something dark as mud

was spreading its infection through her blood.

Her arms, he saw, were stronger now and veined—

she flew from hook to hook and barely strained.

The _**ape**_ had jumped to catch a hook and missed

and, falling back, he struck his broken wrist.

The mind of man, if normal or insane,

is much the same when overrun with pain:

the tattered shreds of self-control ignite,

and judgment deems the world a sphere of night;

the dark obscures the light we cherish most,

and wrath betrays the good to have its ghost.

The _**ape**_ became a raging storm intent

on giving every seething urge its vent.

Before the _**Bat**_ could reach the _**ape**_ again,

he'd bent and snapped the crucial anchor pin

that held the scaffolds firm and fixed in place.

As pirouetting pillars jumped their base,

the superstructure twisted 'round and tipped

and secondary braces wrenched and ripped.

The deadly hooks were jerked about and whipped

and loosened beams unplumbed their weight and slipped

as Lotus leapt to find a fast escape,

but missed her aim and found instead the _**ape.**_

Within a breath, the _**Bat**_ had reached his prey

and pounced and struck his mark amid the fray,

and bulling hard between the two, he said,

_**A man who serves the beast is better dead.**_

_**If any part of Eric clings to Light,**_

_**he'll claim the soul he sold to Gotham's night.**_

A remnant-wisp of Eric seemed to stir,

but not enough to budge the buried burr

that twitched and dug its evil needles deep

to cast a shroud of constant moral sleep.

He tried to reach the girl's throat and snag

the necklace with the crystal data tag,

but once again the _**Bat**_ was in his way,

a debt of aggravation both would pay!

He grabbed a length of cable snapping by

and flung it 'round, as if a whip, to tie

the three of them together side by side—

the time had come to saddle up and ride!

He cinched it tight and used his titan strength

to push the main support along its length.

It crashed against the deck's protective wall

and, smashing through, as bars began to fall,

it teetered, then it slowly tipped and bent

as, one by one, a hundred cables went,

including lines for countless lights displayed

and amps for all the music _**Circus**_ played—

they snapped and popped and cut the air like knives

that disrespected flesh and fragile lives.

The _**Bat**_ had learned that danger finds its peak

when chaos reigns and fortitude grows weak;

he had to act and steer events with deeds,

for he who bides is often he who bleeds.

He reached along his belt and deftly drew

a laser-torch that cut the cable through

and gave him room to fire a burst of smoke

that quickly spread a thick obscuring cloak.

He took the girl and leapt beyond the cage

of bars and wire that wouldn't disengage

the tangled mesh of Eric's legs and arms

as flesh absorbed those hooks with all their charms.

The jumbled web began to tip and fall;

it slipped the edge, but then it seemed to stall

as heavy duty power lines stretched and snapped

and current from the shorted wiring zapped

the metal beams with amps enough to fry

a hundred men condemned by fate to die.

The _**ape**_ began to wildly twitch and thrash,

the cable now a vicious scourging lash

that cut him deep and then, with every moan,

appeared to merge with living flesh and bone.

The molecules that first had made him large

were shifting bonds to use the massive charge

and vivify the chunks and strands of steel

to act as slaves for blood and nerves that feel.

***

The structure perched and flashed on Gotham Tower

as if a bloom, a mad horrific flower,

with Eric hung, his metal sheath a show

of dancing sparks and arcing current's flow.

The _**Bat**_ surveyed the roof and quickly found

the central switch for all the lights and sound.

He killed the power and turned the bedlam dark,

but helicopter searchlights found their mark

and focused beams on Eric's pinioned form—

a beast indeed, beyond the human norm,

for now his limbs were woven through with steel,

his pulsing flesh a charged electric eel

that seemed to glow with sparks from deep within

and give the air a scent of smold'ring tin.

The _**ape**_ was still alive, alive and more,

his new physique more deadly than before.

and now the _**Bat**_ could see the scales at hand,

the choice that certain criminals demand:

to spare a life and grant to risk its take,

or end it quick for safety's prudent sake.

A couple cuts to free the twisted frame,

a plunge to earth that few would rue or blame.

But conscience devil's most the man who finds

familiar shades that lurk in other minds.

The _**ape**_ had tried to change his soul and gain

the love his wife had swapped for cold disdain;

but change that seeks to recompose the soul

must comprehend the parts within the whole

for man is made of many layers and sides--

and deep in every virtue evil hides.

The _**Bat**_ would wait. He'd watch the _**ape**_ unharmed,

and Gordon's troops, in force and fully armed,

could try to coax him in to face the law,

or fight it out with men whose minds were raw

with murder's rictus haunting Arkham's halls,

the blood of guards still wet on floors and walls.

He couldn't hope for more than just a chance;

they'd shoot him dead for just a sidelong glance.

But that was all he'd get, a chance to live—

a damn sight more than _**he'd**_ seen fit to give!

The _**Batman**_ climbed the ledge and called his name

and told him not to move till others came.

But seeing now this man who ruled the night,

his flowing cape, the moon's hypnotic light,

it churned his blood with rage and utter scorn.

He howled within his cage, forever torn

between the man who longed to be returned

and something wild, a primal beast that burned

with darkest wrath and bitterness unfurled

for every man of worth who lit the world.

His arms began to flash like crackling foil

and snap as if a charged electric coil.

A sphere of bluish light began to form,

an egg that spun a strange magnetic storm

that wrapped the _**ape**_ in rings of quav'ring force

and moved in streams of constant circling course;

behind its veil the strings of space unwound

and matter slipped the chains of cosmic ground.

And then the light, as if a curtain drawn,

consumed the _**ape**_, imploded, then was gone.

The _**Bat**_ was stunned, his mind, in disbelief,

was slow to grant his wary nerves relief.

He looked again, the dangling beams in place,

a wisp of smoke, a patch of empty space.

The helicopters swept their lights in vain;

the news would tell the tale but not explain:

_**The strange event of Eric Kwibble—Ape.**_

_**A brutal death? Or magical escape?**_

He felt a touch and turned as Lotus found

a scar exposed where suit had scraped the ground.

She traced it with her fingertip and said,

_**If not for you, I'd probably be dead.**_

_**A man of many secrets learns the art**_

_**of trusting few and guarding well his heart.**_

_**I saw this scar before and wondered then**_

_**about your life, the sort of man you've been.**_

_**I can't pretend to understand it all,**_

_**but each of us must answer fortune's call.**_

_**It's not my place to judge the path you tread…**_

_**I'm more inclined to trust my heart instead.**_

_**I hope you know I'll hold your secret tight—**_

_**for now I've seen the wickedness you fight! **_

The _**Bat**_ was moved beyond the words to say.

He took her hand and lead the girl away.

**Beside a stream that wends through Cheltham Park,**

**a drive of several miles from Gotham Tower,**

**at just the moment Eric's **_**light**_** went **_**dark**_**,**

**the ground began to shake with fearsome power.**

**A thousand bats that skimmed the evening breeze**

**began to turn and seek the swirling spot**

**where something sweet and thick between the trees**

**reminded them of fruit in fragrant rot.**

**A form took shape as slime and steel converged,**

**a beastly form that demons forged in hell.**

**A second stream below the creature surged,**

**a stream of sins from Gotham's ancient wells.**

**The **_**ape**_** was sure he'd lost his mind to dreams—**

**he saw the bats and filled the night with screams!**

Page 46 of 46 Jan-Dec 2008 _**The Ape:**_** A Tale Of The Batman**


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